


Sorrow

by callmeflo



Series: if Wishes were Irises [11]
Category: Those Who Went Missing
Genre: Gen, Origin Prompt, sad Flicker :(
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-19 19:39:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18977044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmeflo/pseuds/callmeflo
Summary: It is the most magnificent flower in the flower shop, but no customer seems to even glance at it - though sometimes there’s a glimmer of gold mica seen in the corner of an eye...





	Sorrow

Withered, wrinkled skin turns white where the woman clutches her walking stick. Her steps are slow and careful, a hobbling gait as she enters through the door and causes a merry jingle to sound from the bell above. As the familiar rich scents of hundreds of spring flowers in bloom swirl towards her, her drooping face brightens with a crooked smile that creases her eyes almost shut. She approaches the counter even slower than usual, pausing each step to brush a trembling finger by colourful petals of a roses display, and then squinting through her half moon spectacles at the typed label of an unusually patterned flower beside them.

“Good morning, Mrs Branley,” welcomes the till keeper in a kind voice, speaking loud and clear with a smile. He knows her well; every Sunday morning she totters her way into the florist shop on her way to the church service, every week buying the same bouquet of white carnations, white gerbera, and red poppies for her late husband’s grave. He knows that she is called Daisy, which is why he always loved the gerbera, and he was called John, a Sergeant Major who served in the war, which is why he’s always given poppies. He knows a few dozen stories about their romantic marriage and their plethora of grandchildren she doesn’t often see, and that she appreciates him taking the time to listen to her.

“Timothy,” she replies. “John’s usual, of course, if I may.”

The shop keeper’s name tag says ‘TIM’, but she insists. It takes two seconds to collect the pre-arranged flowers, and he sets to wrapping the stems together with a paper sleeve and ribbon. “Already waiting for you, of course, Mrs Branley.”

“Just lovely, I do appreciate it as I am in quite the rush this morning! Dorothea at the WI - I go to the meetings every Wednesday, you know - is organising a bake sale at the school’s fundraiser next month - of course, little Peter and Rosie attend the preschool, Peter is in his last year there! I just can’t believe how fast he has grown. Where was I - I absolutely must sign up for the Victoria sponge before Elizabeth, she doesn’t use the right flour and her cakes always taste rather dry. Her cheesecake, however! I will get my hands on her recipe one day!”

The florist is a small building and the shop front even smaller. Whilst behind the counter is a menagerie of basketed flowers and bins of clipped stems beneath shelves of prepared vases and bouquets and small potted shrubs, only the prettiest and most eye-catching blooms are positioned in view. The windowsills are lined with regularly watered soil pots so the window displays don’t wilt, and inside is merely three short walls of flowers and a centrepiece in the middle.

And on the far side of the tiny room, a spirit sits, listening.

Chocolate brown fur is tangled on the swept floor, but most noticeable is the butterscotch iris. Each petal is at least a foot long from crest to tip, and the falls are nearly as wide too. The petal edges are ruffled and curled which create shadows and highlights in a range of golds. It is the most magnificent flower in the flower shop, but no customer seems to even glance at it - though sometimes there’s a glimmer of gold mica seen in the corner of an eye...

Beneath the iris is Flicker, an esk older in years than Daisy Branley but only looking it in her eyes; there’s a certain knowledge gleaming there in the black orbs, a sense of ancient contentedness that is rare in humans. She moves slower than the elderly woman too, though not from lack of ability but lack of care. The spirit has all the time in the world, and the last week has been spent happily on the dirt-streaked tiles of this town florist, sprawled amongst the greenery and thoughtfully keeping the buds nearby blooming for longer than natural.

Mrs Branley soon finishes her tale and rushes off at a wobbling pace to return to her short journey, her small bouquet clutched delicately under one elbow. She passes close enough that Flicker can reach out her long, narrow snout and puff a breath of magic upon the petals, giving them a full month of freshness and infusing their scent with happiness. Behind her head, visible like a mirage catching the right light, a white halo glimmers with the power of her elemental magic.

The day becomes more lively as people begin going about their weekend duties. There are three other church-goers that nip in for their favoured mourning flowers, and a young man wearing a coat over his pyjamas wanting a single flower to accompany a breakfast in bed.

“For my girl Ellie,” he says, “it’s our anniversary!”

Flicker whispers, “Can’t go wrong with a red rose.”

“Well, you can’t go wrong with a classic,” is the shop keeper’s answer. He clips sharp thorns from a thick stem and accepts the handful of coins pulled from a pocket in return.

The next customer is a woman, middle-aged and hurried, looking as if she’d much prefer to be elsewhere. Her brown hair is pulled into a bun that’s slowly unravelling, glasses pushed away from her face the only thing holding her fringe from her eyes. She checks the price tags as she browses.

“Flowers for the mother in law,” she explains. “She drives me batty, but if I show up empty handed it’ll be me looking bad.”

“Narcissus,” murmurs Flicker, amused.

“Then perhaps something subtle,” is the keeper’s suggestion, as he gestures to the daffodils.

And then a younger girl, blushing and barely controlling an embarrassed stutter. She wrings her hands and fiddles with the buttons on her cardigan as she approaches the till.

“For my friend. Um, hopefully my girlfriend, maybe? She’ll absolutely look up the flower meanings though, so it has to be perfect. Just a small bunch, to say, uh, she’s very beautiful and I admire her!”

Flicker rises from her corner, long, thin legs bringing her height past the girl’s hip. Neither human notice the esk’s brown curled fur as it tickles against their sides, nor the splayed iris as its petals brush past the displayed flowers.

“Camellia flowers,” she says -

“Maybe camellias,” the shop keeper says -

“And a spray of orchids,” she continues -

“An orchid, too,” he continues -

“With some hoary stock, and greenery...”

“Stocks, and a couple of greens. Let me get a ribbon - perfect. How does this look...”

The spirit doesn’t need the door opening for her to exit, instead strolling through the glass pane, intangible, and the voices from inside fade behind her. The sunlit pavement warms the flats of her paws as she wanders down the paved street. In her mind is a glimmer that represents her boundary, and it tugs gently at her, directing her home to where her spirit is tied to the Earth.

It’s a cross country journey, going straight back. She’d meandered on the way and passed through many settlements, working her way up through Scotland and returning by way of the Welsh coastline. The course takes her deep into the leafy undergrowth of the Kingswood, the forested land stripping her bare of her nature feature and dampening her blossom elemental to a faint spark. It remains that way as she splashes across the dribbling tributaries, drifts along down shallow, twisting streams, and then hops straight across the main river by way of smooth, speckled wet boulders that erupt from the water’s surface to create a bridge. She can feel herself getting closer and the pattern of wide tree trunks becomes increasingly familiar.

And it doesn’t take long to return, Flicker’s eagerness shown in the long strided canter she soon takes up as the trees begin to thin. The dirt track, no longer trodden down and so growing over with grass, is first to appear, and then the crumbling, ivy-strewn walls that encase the wildflower sanctuary that is her village.

She slows as she makes her way in, following her usual track to the wide market place at the centre. However her steps trail off before she reaches it until she stands frozen, unmoored, between the ruins of two ramshackle cottages. Something heavy grows in her stomach and weighs her down, squeezing her heart and bringing tears to her eyes. Her face is furrowed in frantic confusion that is rapidly swelling into sorrow -

The iris on her back struggles to bloom. The bud has reemerged but is weak and curled inward, one edge of the first petal trying to unwrap but failing. The halo is still nearly indiscernible from the bright atmosphere around it, and only glimmers weakly when she turns her attention to a small flower at her feet.

The esk takes a deep breath and looks around herself with new eyes, taking in the changes that nature has brought in the past few months she’d been away - and in the past decades that she’d tended this village, since the last trace of humans had disappeared. There are no more roads, the cobblestones long since dislodged to make room for sprouting shrubs; there’s barely a roof on half the buildings now, and even those are broken through by young trees or swathed in moss and lichen; the lawns are untrimmed as always, unweeded, more a meadow than a garden.  
When she glances to the air, she catches the slightest glimpse of fluttering feather before it’s gone again, invisible even to her. No cat comes to welcome her.

Flicker wails in grief.

**Author's Note:**

> origin prompt 12: changing their path
> 
> Base Score: 32 AP (Writing: 1602 words)  
> +50 AP (Origin Prompt)  
> +5 AP (Elemental: 5 AP * 1)  
> +5 AP (Personal Work Bonus)  
> +16 AP (Storyteller Bonus: 8 AP * 2)  
> Total AP per submission: 108
> 
> Base Score: 16 GP (Writing: 1602 words)  
> +10 GP (Origin Prompt)  
> +5 GP (Elemental: 5 GP * 1)  
> +12 GP (Storyteller Bonus: 6 GP * 2)  
> Total GP per submission: 43


End file.
